Chapter 1152: Proof of Allegiance

The legend of Angel Lake was something the FBI had actually investigated. They came over secretly to investigate, and Derrick himself led it.

The results of the investigation were naturally very grim. In some areas, a massive number of oil drums were piled up underwater.

Many of the oil drums had already rusted through, exposing the concrete inside.

They had managed to pull one out. In reality, the concrete couldn't completely encase a body; parts of the corpse would still be close to the edge of the drum.

Once the drum rusted through, this part of the body would come into contact with the lake water and be decomposed by microorganisms, until only a skeleton, curled up in the concrete, remained.

When they recovered a skeleton from who-knows-how-many-years-ago, they had no clues, aside from a forensic perspective on how the person died.

They didn't know who the body belonged to, couldn't find any features, and couldn't accurately determine the year of death.

Someone had once wondered why it was so hard to find the origin of an unidentified body found in the Federation.

If someone is missing in a city, isn't there a high probability it's them?

But these people overlooked one problem: the number of people who go missing in the Federation each year is a massive figure.

Last year, in Golden Port City alone, more than two hundred people went missing, and that's not including unregistered refugees and illegal immigrants.

Even under the control of the Lance Family , people still go missing.

Most of these people are lured away by offers of high-paying jobs, and are then targeted by human trafficking organizations or even organ rings.

With organ transplant surgery recently being promoted for wide application among major medical groups, the entire Federal market is facing a huge organ shortage.

A person is a mine, a resource, with potential to be excavated.

A person isn't worth much on the black market, just a few hundred dollars. But an organ can be sold for thousands or even tens of thousands of dollars—

For the wealthy, their first choice is not "an organ that can be installed," but "an organ that can be installed with the minimal rejection reaction." This requires multiple matches to select the most suitable one.

In terms of the parts-to-whole ratio, there is no doubt that human beings are one of the most valuable "commodities."

There are so many missing persons cases everywhere, every year. In the past, Golden Port City had even more, as the major gangs were all more or less involved in the human trafficking business.

To find the identity of this skeleton from the hundreds, or even thousands, of missing persons each year would require an immense amount of police power and energy.

Ultimately, Roland's side called off the plan to dig up Angel Lake's secrets. Digging them up would be a waste of time. Besides, the vast and astonishing number of oil drums was not a problem as long as they were left there. Digging them up would become a problem.

As a Senior Agent Supervisor from the FBI's main bureau, this supervisor, Ike, obviously knew this legend and the inside story.

The corner of his eye twitched uncontrollably. "Your method of invitation is... special!" He paused. "But how can you... make you believe that I've truly defected?"

In a very short time, he had thought about many things.

The biological instinct is survival. All other desires and demands are just extensions that emerge after the survival instinct has been satisfied.

It's like when people can't get enough to eat, the only thing they want is to fill their stomachs.

Only after their stomachs are full will they consider needing a partner, a warm house, or indulging in pleasure.

But before that, filling the stomach is the primary need.

And survival, clearly, surpasses filling the stomach.

He didn't want to die. He had a good job, was a high-income earner, and had a brilliant future. If all of that came to a halt at this moment, he was obviously unwilling.

His parents had supported him through school. His years of hard work, his struggle after entering society—none of it should stop at this moment.

He didn't go through much of an intense mental struggle before making his decision.

Sometimes, these mid-to-high-level people, who grasp a certain amount of power and have some influence, change their thinking more quickly than those at the bottom.

Because they truly possess those good things. Those at the bottom do not; they have nothing left to lose. Perhaps their ideals are all they have.

To lose their ideals is like losing their life. But those at the top... they have money, a wife, children, family, mansions, luxury cars... everything.

Lance smiled. "It's simple. Come with me."

He stood up and took two steps, then looked back. "Oh, I forgot to ask, what's your name?"

"I've probably heard your name, but I just haven't matched it with your face. We should get to know each other."

The Senior Agent Supervisor pressed his lips together. "Ike. Ike Kosh."

A very common, even slightly niche name. "You're not an old-stock Federationer?"

They walked as Lance asked.

Supervisor Ike shook his head. "My great-great-grandfather was a native. I have one-thirty-second native blood."

Lance felt slightly surprised. "I thought you all preferred opening casinos, rather than doing this dangerous work."

Ike couldn't help but show a bitter smile. The natives are "protected" very well now. They aren't allowed to engage in any capital operations. The federal government even requires them to live by hunting, because that fits their "proper" role.

Someone once protested that providing natives with a comfortable living environment was not conducive to preserving and maintaining their customs, so the reservations look like a giant fucking safari park.

But fortunately, there have been some changes over the years. They allow natives to work, for example, as prostitutes, or the lowest-class laborers.

Other than that, on the reservations, influential natives like the chiefs can operate casinos. They have licenses.

"Everyone only sees the rich ones, but they ignore the many more who have no money."

"Besides, starting from my grandfather's generation, we stopped contacting those people."

With one-thirty-second blood, he could already be called a Federationer, not a native.

Lance chatted with him as they walked, arriving at the next room. An FBI agent was imprisoned here.

He also looked haggard. When he saw Ike and Lance come in together, he was filled with shock and uncertainty.

A perfectly good plan was suddenly seen through, and they were caught completely off guard. This had forced the young agent to spend all night thinking about what went wrong.

He looked at Supervisor Ike with suspicion and scrutiny. Lance , however, didn't care about his current emotions. He pulled out his own handgun and handed it to Supervisor Ike. "Kill him."

"There's a camera here. It will record everything that happens. Kill him, and I'll be able to trust you."

Supervisor Ike took the gun and checked it. There were indeed bullets inside. He glanced at the armed men standing behind him. He knew very well that if his movements were even slightly incorrect, a bullet would shoot through the back of his skull from behind.

His gaze lingered on Lance for a moment, knowing he wasn't joking. Then he looked at the agent, who was already terrified. A wisp of guilt appeared on his face. "Sorry."

"I... I just want to live."

He raised the pistol and, in the young agent's disbelieving gaze, pulled the trigger.

The bullets pierced his head. Because it was a small-caliber pistol, the sound wasn't loud, just pff, pff.

The young agent's head snapped back, and three bullet holes appeared on it.

Perhaps afraid the guy wasn't completely dead, Supervisor Ike even took the initiative to walk over and fire a few more shots into his body.

Lance watched quietly from the side as he finished. He took back the weapon, then installed a new magazine. "Well done. Now, on to the next room."

Supervisor Ike's expression showed a subtle change. "You... how many do you need me to do?"

"How many?" Lance laughed. "Not how many. All of them."

This sentence made Supervisor Ike fall silent. He knew he had to show his sincerity to survive, but he never thought this "sincerity" would be so "heavy."

He didn't resist, didn't object, because he knew it was pointless.

In every room, there was a living, breathing life.

Some, like the nameless guy in the first room, were full of vigilance at Supervisor Ike's appearance.

But others were overjoyed. They thought Supervisor Ike was there to rescue them, or to take them away from this hellish place.

But no matter how they viewed Supervisor Ike's appearance, their end was the same.

A total of twelve agents, all died at Supervisor Ike's hands.

By the fourth or fifth kill, his hand had already started to tremble. He felt his mouth go dry, his heart pound.

Killing, and killing his own people, put him under immense psychological pressure. He was on the verge of collapse.

He could not forget the eyes of the young men he had brought out, even when he closed his own. Those pairs of eyes, filled with confusion and hatred, made his very soul tremble.

But after killing seven or eight, his hand stopped shaking. His expression gradually became indifferent, as if he was entering a state of habit.

When the last agent begged him not to shoot, and he instead precisely shot him in the head, everything seemed to, at that moment, become calm.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. His mouth wasn't dry. He calmly handed the pistol, an in his own direction, back to Lance . "Are there any more?"

Lance used a handkerchief to take the gun, then tossed it into an evidence bag. This gun would be sealed away, as evidence of the supervisor's massacre of the agents.

Supervisor Ike no longer cared what Lance did now.

Lance smiled and put his arm around his shoulder. "You've earned my trust. Actually, there are a few more agents, but they're in the hospital right now."

"You know, I have a company, one that makes movies. And I myself have some experience in writing stories."

"What you need to do is not only make me believe you're genuine, but also make Roland believe you're fine."

"I'll arrange for someone to send you to the hospital in a bit. You can give Roland a call then. Don't worry, they are all my people. I guarantee there will be no problems with your diagnosis or medical records."

"Explain the situation here to him, and then tell me his orders."

The two had walked out of the dungeon. Lance handed him an envelope. "Open it, take a look."

Supervisor Ike opened the envelope. Inside was a deposit slip. He looked at Lance in confusion, as if asking, "What's this?"

"It's an investment account. Every three months, one hundred thousand dollars will be deposited into this account."

"And it's an anonymous investment account. You can let anyone use it. The money inside is also clean, it can stand up to scrutiny."

"You're a professional. You know how to get this money into your life smoothly. I won't interfere."

"In the future, you'll discover that cooperating with me was the best choice you ever made in your life!"

He finished speaking and shook hands with Supervisor Ike. Two cars had already pulled up in front of them. "You can use these phone numbers to contact me in the future. Of course, I will also contact you when necessary. By the way..."

"Among your colleagues... you are not the only one!"

He patted Supervisor Ike's shoulder and signaled for his men to take him to the hospital.

Supervisor Ike was half-pushed, half-led into the car. His head was still buzzing. The shock from Lance's last words was even greater than the shock of personally killing so many agents!

He wasn't the only one. Did that mean... other supervisors had already defected to Lance ? Secretly, in a way no one knew?

Perhaps their operation's plan was leaked by an insider, and that's why he had encountered all of this!

Thinking of this, a surge of resentment welled up in his heart!

But it was immediately followed by helplessness, because he knew he could do nothing about it. He didn't even have the slightest thought of telling Roland about it.

If he had only been forced to kill one person, or two, Roland might have a way to save him.

But he had killed too many people. Even if he was forced, he would still be sentenced in court.

Even if the sentence wasn't long, once he entered prison, his life was over.

His life was just starting to get good, he could see a bright future. It couldn't be over so soon!

He glanced at the card in his hand, filled with phone numbers, and at the deposit slip. He put them carefully into his pocket.

If you can't fight it, might as well enjoy it.

He was soon sent to the hospital, and they arranged a private bed for him. He then gave Roland a call.

"Fuck, what happened?"

"Why didn't you contact me?" Roland's voice was anxious. "What the hell happened?"

Before making the call, Supervisor Ike had punched himself in the throat, then taken a deep drag from a cigar.

The huge amount of tar and nicotine made his throat swell and turn hoarse. His voice sounded like he was badly injured and on the verge of death.

"We were attacked. I don't know if someone leaked our info. Just as we were about to move, Lance's gunmen fired at us with rifles from places we couldn't see."

"They forced us back into the rooms, then threw grenades at us. I was knocked unconscious by the blast."

"When I woke up, I was already in the hospital. They wouldn't let me make a call. I just... ran to the office to make this call while the nurse was away..."

Hearing this, Director Roland's tone became even more agitated. "How could the info be leaked? Were you not careful enough?"

Supervisor Ike didn't speak. Director Roland also knew he'd misspoken. He had chosen the people, and everyone knew the importance of the matter. It was unlikely to be a problem on their end.

He was silent for a moment. "It might be a problem on Derrick's side. Fuck, I knew that bastard was unreliable!"

He paused. "What's your casualty situation?"

Supervisor Ike was silent again for a moment. "Only a few survived, and we're all badly injured."

"We're still... in the hospital. Lance's men don't show any signs of trying to finish us off."

Director Roland took a deep breath. "Fuck, I get it. I'll arrange for people to come get you."

With that, he slammed down the phone.

Supervisor Ike looked at the receiver in his hand. Ever since Director Roland's direct conflicts with Lance had been escalating, and he kept taking losses, that tall, bright image was slowly collapsing in his mind.

Today, the foul-mouthed Director Roland didn't ask about their injuries first, but rather about whether the plan had succeeded. That was very bad.

Supervisor Ike stood there for a while, then returned to his hospital room and lay down on the bed.

Next, he needed to put on a "fake show." A surgeon gave him an anesthetic, used a blunt instrument to tear open his skin, and then stitched it back up to better match the story of his injuries.

On the other side, Director Roland immediately called Derrick and cussed him out.

Derrick seemed to have no idea what had happened. The two were extremely rude to each other on the phone.

Derrick was already in a terrible mood because of Lance . Now that Roland had served himself up, he absolutely wasn't going to coddle him.

After accusing each other for a while, they both hung up.

Director Roland put down the phone and sat behind his desk with his head down, constantly running his fingers through his hair. He knew his mindset had a problem.

But he couldn't fix it.

It was just like every gambling addict. After losing some money, their reason tells them they should stop, not continue.

But their hand, involuntarily, throws the chips onto the table once more.

Knowing, and doing, are never the same thing!

When it came to the problem of Lance , Director Roland lost control every time. He felt that Lance was his nemesis.

But, at the same time, he needed to show his ability to the big shots who could help him become a big shot. If he couldn't even handle Lance , or just skipped over him, what would Mr. Potter and the others think?

A dog that picks and chooses who to bite?

He slammed his fist on the table.

"Fuck!"